One Night Before I Was Thirty-Six

A fiction story with three people.

Note to readers: the following story is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead or almost dead is entirely coincidental. And dental!

One Night Before I Was Thirty-Six

I bumped into John on Broadway in front a store with a big window. Inside, people were spooning pickles and olives into containers. I knew him from the park. I liked to let him run ahead of me, so I could see the muscles in his back. He said, “Come for a run.” I pointed to my sandals and skirt. He had a girlfriend. He leaned in to kiss me, and I thought he was smelling me. He was planning a life, where people bought pickles and olives and stored them in the refrigerator with other food.

At this time, I had started seeing a man named Joe. One night Joe and I went to a party, and who should we run into but John. The men sat on a couch and started a conversation. They looked happy. They looked like they needed nothing else. I drifted off. John and Joe were always in my thoughts. Either I’d be thinking about John, or I’d be thinking about Joe. I wish I could tell you otherwise.

After Joe and I left the party, we walked downtown to his loft and on the way passed a restaurant with a long bar. At one end sat a fat man in a black fedora and a long coat. He was eating oysters from a platter, and beside him was a woman with creamy skin and glowing red lips who was young enough to be his granddaughter. Joe said, “Have you ever turned a trick?” I said, “No.” He said, “I have.” I said, “With who?” He didn’t answer. It was like finding an Easter egg.

In the elevator, Joe ruffled my hair. It was in need of a cut. I thought maybe I should get a cat instead of a cut. The cat would be lonely in my apartment when I wasn’t there. I was almost always never there. Inside Joe’s loft, he opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses. He said, “I don’t want John around you.” I said, “Why?” He said, “He’s big and gorgeous.” I must have smiled. He said, “I wonder what’s making you happy.”

We were in the living room when we heard a bang on the door and John’s voice shouting, “Can I come in?” I said to Joe, “I can’t believe this.” Joe said, “He’s your boyfriend.” Joe let John in. John said to Joe, “Can I just have one drink? I like you guys so much.” His hair flopped over his forehead. He was staggering. For months I’d had this exact fantasy, John out of control and pounding on the door. Only it was my door, not Joe’s door.

I said to John, “What is this?” He spread his fingers. They were wide enough to palm a basketball. The men sat on the couch, the same as at the party. I was thirty-five. I was on a chair across from them, wearing a dress that rode up my thighs. John was getting married to his girlfriend in two months. I hadn’t been invited. Her name was Candy. I tugged at my dress. The men were looking at each other. John said he and Candy were planning on having a baby.

He said, “Candy is smart and adorable. We want the same things.” How did he know that? How could anyone know what anyone else wanted? How could a person know what they wanted?

Joe rolled a cigarette. On the wall above his head was a shelf of postcards and stones from people and places I didn’t know. I thought I should have a shelf with stones and postcards and I wondered how I would get them.

John turned to me and said, “I don’t want to have sex with you.” I said, “Okay.” It wasn’t okay. He said, “I’m fascinated by the way you live.” I said, “Really? What’s my work?” He said, “You work in the theater.” I said, “What do I do in the theater?” He said, “I don’t know.”

At the time, I was directing three women in a production of The Maids. We would open in a little theater attached to a mental hospital. I was having the time of my life. I loved everything about the women and the play. I was living in the moment. There really is such a thing.

John turned to Joe and said, “I think I want to be Sarah. God, what would it be like with no one caring if you measured up. You could be a Buddhist monk, or a race car driver, or collect insects in the Amazon, and who would have their dreams destroyed?” I said, “In other words, you’re looking for the freedom of a nonentity.”

Joe picked a thread of tobacco off his tongue and said to John, “If I could, I would choose to be you.” I could see why, in a way. Joe was pale and slight. He didn’t go running in the park. He had answered an ad I’d placed on Craigslist for a composer. He had written music for my play. Joe said to John, “Maybe we don’t want as much as you. Maybe we don’t want that much responsibility.” I didn’t think this was true. I thought Joe was being kind, and I liked that about him.

John turned to me and said, “I’ll never have the kind of sex you have.” I said, “What are you talking about?” Honestly, I didn’t know what he was imagining, although I liked that he was imagining me having any kind of sex.

Joe said to John, “Why did you follow us?” John said, “It’s what Sarah would have done.” I said, “I would never have burst into someone’s apartment.” He said, “You’d want to.”

He came over to me and kissed me. I didn’t push him away. His hands were on my shoulders, those basketball hands. They felt good. It was a good kiss. After my father died, my mother wasn’t that old, and I remember walking with her on a beach. She kept looking around as if for her life. I said to John, “You’re acting like a lunatic.” I didn’t really say that. I said, “I love you.”

Joe went over to John and swung him around. They looked like they were dancing. Joe said, “Look, man, you got into my place, and you had your kiss. Believe me, everyone wants to be blindfolded and led to the party.” He guided John back to the couch, and john stretched out and closed his eyes. He slept there. You don’t need to know what happened in the morning.

Joe touched my neck and said, “Look at you, so tough.” He put his arm around my waist and said, “And talented.” He slid off the band he was wearing on his hair, and it fell to his shoulders. He said, “I want to know what you were thinking tonight. Don’t leave out a single detail.” I said, “I can’t tell the difference between good wine and bad wine.” He said, “I like that about you.”

Biz

Writers do not make money from writing books. A few do, but most of us do not. The past couple of decades, literary writers have been paid by universities to teach creative writing to people who pay thousands of dollars for an MFA degree. I have never been part of the academy.

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In the last Zoom conversation (on August 24), we talked about transforming abstract nouns into scenes and images. Abstract nouns such as forgiveness, wellness, anger, beauty, wisdom, justice, freedom, independence, honor, etc. summarize an internal response the narrator is having. They are ways to summarize a judgment and an evaluation, but they don't show the reader anything else. They are markers of a moral position the narrator is advertising.

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As a quick example, instead of using the word "generosity" to describe a person, you might say something like Fred who always cuts himself the thinnest wedge of cake. There are millions of ways to work on this skill. Abstract nouns don't actually mean anything in terms of communication. They are merit badges.

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